


Chiaroscuro

by strawberry_pills



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_pills/pseuds/strawberry_pills
Summary: The term chiaroscuro stems from the Italian words chiaro (“clear” or “bright”) and oscuro (“obscure” or “dark”), and refers to the arrangement of light and shade in a work of art.A collection of Lumione drabbles, one-shots, and ficlets.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
Comments: 41
Kudos: 75





	1. In the Next Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Neon Trees' song 'In the Next Room'.

The walls were thin.

The walls were thin and that Mudblood chit was purposely driving him insane.

Lucius had to wonder if this was a continuation of his punishment. Maybe the Dementors and the cold, dingy walls of Azkaban weren’t enough.

After failing his task in the Department of Mysteries, Lucius had resigned himself to a lifetime of imprisonment in that wretched island. He had lost all contact with the outside world and the only noise he could hear outside his cell was the wailing of the other prisoners.

Lucius had lost all sense of time in that place and didn’t know long he was there until the Order of the Phoenix broke him out.

Yes, the Order.

Why? They wanted information. Desperate times called for desperate measures, Kingsley Shacklebolt explained to him simply. At first, Lucius wondered why him of all people. Surely, they must know he wouldn’t just hand over everything to them on a silver platter that easily?

He feared the Dark Lord’s wrath more than all of them combined, plus he had his family to look out for. Unless they can guarantee the safety of his wife and son, he wouldn’t even consider talking to them.

But of course, they had banked on his loyalty to his family. It was a weakness Lucius never bothered to rectify. Family is family. It was why the Order chose him.

Narcissa's death was a solid blow to the gut. The wave of guilt that overcame him was crippling. Lucius had thought that his imprisonment was punishment enough, but he had underestimated the Dark Lord’s sadistic nature. She was the one who received the retribution intended for him and that punishment took the life of the woman he had come to respect over the years.

The Order managed to spirit Draco away in time and for that, Lucius was utterly grateful. So much so that he had immediately volunteered every information needed to dispose the monomaniacal madman for good.

It was how he ended up hiding here in Grimmauld Place. The last time he'd been here was when Regulus graduated Hogwarts and the house still looked the same, although a little bit neglected.

Lucius stayed in one of the rooms on the uppermost floor of the house right next to Potter's Mudblood friend.

He had hardly paid any attention to that fact at first. Lucius mostly stayed out of their way and only appeared when he was needed. The girl was mostly away too with her friends on a quest to find Horcruxes. Draco sometimes accompanied them, despite Lucius’ objections. But he couldn’t do anything about it no matter how dangerous it could be. His relationship with his son was only being held by a very thin thread and he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the only thing that mattered in his life right now.

Lucius would breathe a sigh of relief every time his son would enter the doors, perfectly safe and laughing along with his newfound friends.

His son being here meant that the girl would be here too. It was both a relief and a thorn in his existence.

It started one night. Precisely three months after he started living here.

Lucius had always been a light sleeper. It was a prerequisite for being a Death Eater. The Dark Lord would call upon them sometimes in the dead of the night and a minute late would result in severe punishment.

He hadn't realized how thin the walls were when he woke up to some strange noise coming from the next room. His hazy mind thought that the Mudblood chit was hurt or was having nightmares at first but when his sleep-addled brain had finally cleared, he realized—to his disgust—what the sound was.

The girl was pleasuring herself.

The sounds were driving him more insane night after night. And when he did finally manage to get some semblance of sleep, it was filled with her moans and images of her sprawled across her bed with her hands between her thighs. He would wake up with sweat covering his entire body as if he’d run a mile and a raging hard-on that just won’t back down.

It was harder in the mornings when he was forced to interact with the girl and she would act so innocently like she didn’t keep him awake all night _every. Single. Night._ From the way she would flick her tongue to lick a cream that strayed the side of her mouth to the way her hands would caress the spine of a book sensually before opening it. Deplorable images would spring in his mind replacing every object she touched with his cock and Lucius would abruptly excuse himself to use the loo, biting the back of his hand to prevent himself from getting heard as his other hand pump eagerly along his rigid shaft.

It was wrong. Lucius knew it was wrong. His wife wasn’t even gone for a year and he was already having wicked thoughts about a girl half his age—his son’s age! And a Mudblood no less.

He wondered if she knew just how much she affected him every time he would hear her body move through the next room. How much she was playing him like he’s made of strings. Lucius was addicted to the sounds she made. Every sigh and whimper were like a melody caressing his taut muscles.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He was lying in his bed thinking about her when he heard the familiar rustling of clothes. Lucius already felt his cock rousing, felt disgusted with himself at how he easily let his baser instinct took over. His lower abdominal muscles shook as his hand reached inside his trousers to slowly stroke his cock.

“Hmm ohh,” he heard her moan on the other side and he couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath that left his mouth.

“Shit!” he hissed before biting his bottom lip. Lucius didn’t have a wand so he had to use the traditional way of silence himself. His other hand gripped the sheets so hard his knuckles were turning white as the other one kept pumping feverishly, pretending it was her mouth sucking his cock.

Lucius had half the mind to go over there and take her instead, wanted to be the one sharing her bed, to be the one to show her what real pleasure really was, but all he could do was touch himself as he listened to her cries of pleasure.

“Gods, yes,” the girl sobbed and Lucius could feel her getting closer. He couldn’t help but thrust his hips up in time with her frantic breathing, trying to chase release.

“Fuck, yes, Hermione! Come for me,” he growled.

“I’m coming, oh fuck,” she whimpered but it was he who came first with his teeth sinking in the back of his hand to muffle his groan. Wave after wave of blinding ecstasy rocked through him and for one, crystalline moment, she didn’t exist, and nothing existed and that was it.

His fingertips twitched and spasmed around his now flaccid member and it was only a few seconds before she followed. It was like she was dying. Tortured moans ripped from her raw throat, death bed cries.

Then, it ended.

Lucius heard the rustling of clothes again as he fixed himself. He imagined her arranging her nightclothes before lazily draping the bedsheet over her prone, satiated body.

He felt his pulse slow to an acceptable rate before sleep finally overtook him. Lucius was there, dangling on the edge of consciousness and oblivion when he heard it. A soft, contented sigh and a voice on the other side.

“Oh, Lucius.” 


	2. Lover's Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Muggle AU where Hermione is an art dealer and Lucius is... well... his usual pompous self. Slight fluff if you squint at it hard enough. It's sort of a meet-cute? If you've seen the Daredevil TV series, you'd know where this was based from.
> 
> Also, the story behind Hussar's Lover's Eye was just made up lol

Hermione was immediately drawn to him the moment she laid eyes on him that night. He was a striking contrast with his long, pale blond hair that was tied by the nape with a silk green ribbon and midnight black suit that was perfectly tailored to his strong, broad figure. A contradiction. A dichotomy. A chiaroscuro.

The gallery was small, so it wasn't really that impossible to miss him especially since he was the only constant thing among the masses who came and went as the soft tones of Chopin's Nocturne hummed in the background. Hermione could tell that he came from old money the way an antiquarian can tell if an 18th-century nephrite jade vase was legitimately antique or a finely, recently-made imitation. The man was completely comfortable in his surroundings as if he owned the place.

He had been standing in front of a Hussar for nearly half an hour now, seemingly captivated by the simple oil painting of an eye with a teardrop underneath it. It was called Lover's Eye and was inspired by a piece of jewelry gifted by Prince George of Wales to Maria Anne Fitzherbert.

"They say it is an expression of devotion between loved ones," she said softly, almost like a whisper as she stood beside him. The man indicated no expression that he had heard her, but Hermione knew that he did. "It was commissioned as gifts back in the 18th century. Some, too, were painted in memory of the deceased. All were intimate and exceedingly precious: eyes painted on bits of ivory no bigger than a pinky nail, then set inside ruby-garlanded brooches, pearl-encrusted rings, or ornate golden charms meant to be tucked into pockets or pinned close to the heart. Back then, British people were desperate to give each other not just images of themselves, but part of themselves."

It was when she noticed that he was clutching a cane in front of him where a silver serpent adorned the head. When the man continued to stare at the painting, Hermione decided to ask, "Are you interested, or are you just looking?"

A twitch from one of his ringed fingers told her that he'd acknowledged her question. "Interested," was the only curt reply.

Out of all the artworks here, it was this plain, simple oil painting that caught his interest. None of the other patrons paid as so much a passing glance in this piece of art, only him. "People always asked me how can we charge so much for what amounts to gradations of white underneath a plain depiction of an eye. I tell them it's not about the artist's name or the skill required, not even about the art itself. All that matters is, 'How does it make you feel?'"

The gentleman tilted his head to the side and Hermione was even more drawn to the swirl of grays and blues that formed his eyes. It reminded her of the stolen Rembrandt, the Sea of Galilee. He held her gaze for a second before speaking, "It makes me feel alone."

* * *

It was he who found her the following week. She had just finished closing the deal on a Ryden painting when she noticed him standing off to the side observing her. "It's you again. How are you enjoying Lover's Eye?"

"You remember," he sounded surprised.

"Of course, I did. It's one of my favorites," she smiled at him. "I was actually loathed to part with it but I knew it would be with someone capable of appreciating its beauty."

Hermione saw the corner of his lips turned up in amusement. "What other artists do you like?" he asked.

"Dali, Hussar, Van Gogh, Warhol, Picasso," she listed. "Among others."

"Really? I'm intrigued."

"Why? Because I'm a woman?" she joked.

The man shook his head. "Not at all, it's just the choice of artists."

"Well, I'm drawn to extreme personalities."

"I can tell," he said. He was wearing the same shade of black suit as was before with the silver serpent cane present at his left hand. The only difference now was that he was wearing a velvet green cravat perfectly tied around his neck.

Silence passed where they just simply stared at each other. A very still point in a moving sea of people.

"I hung it in my bedroom," the gentleman said breaking the silence. He was referring to the Hussar painting he purchased. "It's the last thing I see every night, and the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning."

Hermione arched an eyebrow at him. "That's either very romantic or very sad."

"I like to tell myself it's the former," he shrugged nonchalantly. The man tapped his cane lightly on the hardwood floor before taking a step towards her. "I wanted to thank you for it personally."

"I'm an art dealer. It's my job to sell paintings. But you're welcome," Hermione smiled at him. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

The man thought for a moment, taking a step closer. "Yes. I'd like you to join me for dinner."

That certainly caught her off guard. The most a buyer had done for her was give her a huge tip. These rich stiffs never really saw her as a human being, let alone a woman. To have a handsome man ask her out to dinner was a jarring experience at the very least—flattering at the very most. Even if he was a decade older than her. Or two? Hermione can hardly tell. The man's features transcended time itself. "I—uhh… I'm the only one working here tonight."

"Another time then," the man nodded before backing away quickly and Hermione remembered their conversation the other week and instantly felt bad.

"That's it?" she called out to him. "You're not going to offer to buy every painting in here so I can close up early?"

Hermione was just teasing but she noticed the furrowing of his brows as his eyes narrowed and his irises turned from molten grey to cold hard steel. He took calculated steps back to her until his face was merely inches away from her ear. And then he whispered, the sound so menacing that Hermione almost took a step back but it wasn't out of fear. "A woman that can be bought isn't worth having."

She wanted to slap him, to retaliate that she's not that kind of woman but seeing the intensity in his eyes sent shivers down her spine. Hermione realized that this man was dangerous, the kind of man that her mother warned her about. She should just turn around and forget about him entirely, but she found herself turning her head to the side, looking up at him with challenge in her eyes. _I'm drawn to extreme personalities._ "I'm partial to French."

His face softened at that and it made him years younger, nearly the same age as her. _I can tell._ "We agree on more than art."

Hermione reached out a hand. "Hermione Granger."

A smooth, cold hand firmly clasped her warm, petite ones. "Lucius Malfoy."


	3. End of an Era

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU of my fic, Our Legacy. An AU of an AU fic. It's so meta, I know. But I was watching the news last night and was really inspired to write this lol

“You won.”

“No,” she shook her head vehemently. “No one has flooed yet for the announcement.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the blond wizard pressed. “You got the majority of the Purebloods’ votes. You won.”

“There’s still the minority,” she said as she nervously paced the entire room, waiting for the remaining votes to be counted. “And I haven’t got the floo call.”

Lucius walked across the study to the pile of folders sitting at his huge mahogany desk. He quickly flipped through the stack until he found what he was looking for. “I want Zabini and Potter to look over this speech,” he said as he waved the folder in her direction.

“Put that folder down, Lucius,” Hermione warned. “We’re going to wait for the announcement.”

Her pacing was the only thing moving at a reasonable pace in Lucius’ study, even with numerous owls going to and fro through the window at an alarming speed. Hermione chose to ignore the messages, the congratulations until they were absolutely, a hundred and one percent sure. But the radio’s constant flickering static and Lee Jordan’s voice were all saying the same thing.

Hermione Granger beat Kingsley Shacklebolt. A 29-year-old woman had stopped Kingsley’s reelection in its tracks.

The rest of the campaign team was bustling about, answering owls from all the major news outlets. _No, we don’t have a statement at this time. Miss Granger will not be making a speech at this time._ There was still the slim possibility that the minority they’d felt confident would vote in her favor would decide to switch to the other side. Would reelect Kingsley who had made sure the Muggleborns would have a place in the Wizarding society but would not lift a finger to eradicate the proverbial glass ceiling that separated them from the privileged Purebloods and some Half-bloods. Which Hermione’s team had continuously ground that into their speeches as they went through the whole of Wizarding Britain three times.

There was still a chance it didn’t work. But every news even in the neighboring Ministries across the globe had already sent owls and announced their support of her.

Hermione didn’t feel that security.

There was that all too familiar tingle before the fireplace in Lucius’ study flared to life. Vibrant, green flames erupted signaling a call was about to go through. Everyone in the room fell silent. Out of her peripheral, she saw Lucius strode over and answered the call with a quick flick of his wand.

“Lucius Malfoy speaking.”

Hermione heard the familiar voice of Theodore Nott, Kingsley’s aide, as he asked if Kingsley could have a quick word with Hermione. 

Lucius waved a hand over the fireplace, muffling it before turning to the rest of her team. “Everyone out.”

The team that comprised of Harry, Blaise, Penelope, and Draco didn’t need telling twice. They immediately exited the study, filing into the main hallway. No doubt so they could cram their bodies against the thick oakwood door to see if they could catch a bit of the conversation.

Lucius looked up at Hermione. “This is it. Are you ready?”

“I need one more minute of not being Minister for Magic,” she eyed the still roaring fireplace.

“Kingsley might end this call, then go out and make an acceptance speech while you enjoy your minute sweetheart.”

“Lucius. Please.”

He eyed her while she eyed the fireplace, then spoke in a softer tone, “This is what you wanted. This is what you worked for.”

“It’s still fucking frightening,” she breathed a laugh bordering on manic. His lips quirked and she walked over to take the floo call. He waved his hand again and her demeanor changed. With a straightened back and hard-set eyes, she spoke again, “Hermione Granger speaking.”

Lucius stepped away with the intent of letting her have the moment to herself, but her hand reached out and touched his arm, surprising him.

_Stay here,_ she mouthed before replying vocally, “It has been quite the race. I’ll agree with you on that Minister Shacklebolt.” She put two fingers to her temple and pressed hard as she listened to him speak for a moment.

The formalities of Kingsley’s title would follow him forever, of course, she’d have to refer to him as the title he’d just lost. Courtesy and politeness were worn thin, but not thin enough that she couldn’t grant him this last moment of self-aggrandizing over the floo call. Lucius sat down on the nearby chair and observed.

She stepped away from the fireplace and began a small pace in front of it. “Thank you, I am sure I will as well. Would—”

She took a deep silent breath. Kingsley still wanted as much control over her as he possibly could. Lucius reached out when her pacing brought her closer to him. He squeezed her hand and she smiled for a moment before pulling away to resume her pacing.

“Oh yes, I’m very familiar with Percy’s current position. As well as his father’s former position.”

There was no point in letting Kingsley get the last laugh right before Hermione would take his spot. They had two months to discuss transitions with him, but that didn’t mean Hermione needed to let him walk all over her.

“End it,” Lucius murmured, softly as to not be overheard.

Hermione stopped and raised her eyebrows. _What?_ she mouthed. “Ah yes, my team will be looking at that relationship specifically. We’ve had our eyes on rebuilding that relationship with MACUSA for the majority of this campaign. I’m sure you have as well. But shouldn’t—”

He rolled his eyes at whatever bullshit Kingsley was spewing. “End the call. You won. He lost.”

Hermione shook her head and jerked her head towards the door, _Leave._

Lucius shook his head and smirked before whispering again, “Oh no, you wanted me to stay so I’m staying, otherwise you’ll be listening to this idiot all night. End the floo so we can go over your speech, Minister Granger.”

The title stunned her for a moment as he knew it would. The shock radiated through her veins. When he stood up from the chair and plucked the folder from the top of the pile he could hear Kingsley’s gravelly voice droning on. He held up the folder which only contained two copies of a speech written two weeks prior. She eyed it and then turned her attention to Lucius’s bright, grey eyes.

Without looking away from him she abruptly said, “Kingsley, I'd like to thank you very much for this call, but unfortunately I’m going to have to end it. There are some voters in Lucius’ ballroom waiting to hear the good news. I look forward to our transition meetings and I will make sure my office contacts yours immediately to schedule them.”

Lucius grinned as she followed her blunt speech up with a polite farewell and ended the floo call.

He held out the speech for her to take, but she ignored the folder and came forward to press her lips to his. If his ‘Minister Granger’ had stunned her it was nothing in comparison to his shock. His eyelids closed as her hands held his face to hers. The softness was something he’d thought about time and time again but had given up on. Settling for shared looks, brief brushes against one another on the campaigns, that one late night of drinking where they’d ended up very, very close, but not close enough to this moment.

But not close enough. Not when there were reporters to schedule interviews with, strategies to make, speeches to practice, photo ops to setup, pancake breakfasts to serve, and all the other seemingly inane bullshit they both endured while they worked their way to this moment. And yet, she’d never batted his hands away, never broke eye contact when he was caught staring for too long, always smirked at his snarky remarks. Licked her lips far too often for his liking. 

He hadn’t thought it would come to this. By the time he began to even think about reciprocating she had already pulled away. Her dark, auburn eyes crinkled in confusion and hurt.

“Shit, sorry. I was mistaken—”

The folder made a smack on the ground when he dropped it in favor of threading his hands through her thick, chesnut curls. His lips met hers again, making sure to erase any doubt in her mind about mistakes even if this was one. They could always blame it on the election night endorphins, he thought to himself. Sticking it to Kingsley Shacklebolt was a bit of a turn on. Then he felt her hand making its way down from his cheek and he let himself stop thinking for a moment.

“We should probably let the team back in the room,” she murmured against his lips, still not wanting to stop completely. Her hand so low on his chest if only she'd gone a bit lower. 

“Hmm,” he hummed. There was no trust in his vocal cords to make any other appropriate answers. He kept his hand in her hair, fingers curled in the strands against her neck.

She smiled when he deepened the kiss with any trace of worry gone. Or rather, worry about him not reciprocating what she was feeling. The worry about giving a speech and being elected Minister for Magic was still there. But he was doing a very good job of pushing that worry back.

“Lucius.”

“Minister Granger," he replied against her mouth. 

She lightly squeezed his arm, “You’re standing on my speech.”

“My apologies,” he broke away and ducked down to pick up the folder. He held it out between them, but she still didn’t take it. The moment was broken, but neither one of them was sated. 

“It feels like yesterday that we were just starting our campaign,” she mused.

“We’ve survived. And we’re not done yet.”

“Yes.”

He stroked her hair again. The last bit of contact he’d allow before they became Minister and chief of staff again. Forced to tread a different track, “Does it frighten you?”

“No. None of this scares me,” she smiled before reaching up to give him one last peck on the lips.

“Good.”

It was just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now back to writing chapter 12 of Our Legacy ;)


	4. Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The uncut version of the drabble I posted in Strictly Lumione.

Hermione was used to waking up in strange places. There was that time she spent a year on the run with the boys during their final year in Hogwarts. Then there was that time she and Ginny went to a pub crawl across London where she ended up in a stranger's bed.

Come to think of it, they did go to a pub crawl last night with Luna of all people. That probably explained why she was in an unfamiliar bed right this moment.

Hermione looked around the finely decorated room, her eyes glued to the intricately designed ceiling you can only see in posh hotels. Oddly enough, the colors reminded her of the Slytherin common room. She tried to extricate herself but found something—or someone?—heavy weighing her down. She slightly lifted the covers to see a mass of long blond hair sprawled across her chest.

“Luna, get up. I need to pee.”

A masculine voice froze her into place instead. Lifting the covers further, Hermione gave an undignified shriek at the sight of a naked Lucius Malfoy hugging the lower half of her equally naked body like his life depended on it.

“Didn’t you have enough of screaming last night, witch?” came a muffled reply. Hermione felt the older wizard burrow his face further in her stomach, tickling her.

“Oh, sod off, Malfoy! Why am I here?!”

Malfoy then lifted his head to stare at her, his icy blue eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you think?”

 _This can’t be happening,_ Hermione groaned as she tried to push away the older wizard. Of all the men in London, it was this pompous git she ended up sleeping with. If Ginny found out about this, Hermione would never hear the end of it. _No more jager bombs for you, missy._ “Get off me!”

“Why? It’s comfortable here.”

“Malfoy!”

“Granger,” he deadpanned. Malfoy's chin was now resting atop her stomach, just above her navel.

They stared at each other for a few seconds before they broke into a fit of giggles. The situation was absurd, really. A situation that only happened in films, not in real life.

Malfoy's usual steely orbs softened and Hermione found herself mesmerized. For such an arrogant person, he sure had a pretty face. It wasn't really fair.

“Stay,” he murmured. The sudden vulnerability in his tone caught her off guard.

She should be running to the hills because this was Lucius Malfoy they were talking about but she found herself nodding her head in agreement instead. Hermione supposed there were worse places to wake up to.


	5. Twenty-five Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you watch Normal People at 4 in the morning. A full-blown, angsty, 1k-word Lumione fic.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she greeted detachedly and Lucius had to clench his fist tightly to stop himself from doing anything he would later immensely regret. They stood by the entrance of Flourish and Blotts. She was on her way out while he had just arrived, meaning to purchase a new book but the errand didn’t sound so appealing to him anymore.

He hated the way her warm whiskey eyes were devoid of its usual intensity. Like they were nothing more than passing acquaintances or probably even less. Lucius thought that even complete strangers were on the receiving end of her benevolence. But not him, no.

A spark of anger rose within the depths of his core. He hadn’t felt this enraged since that day she mysteriously vanished two and a half decades ago.

She now acted as if they were nothing to each other. As if he hadn’t touched and tasted every inch of her soft skin, how she writhed underneath him and moaned his name until she reached the peak of her pleasure, taking him along with her. Like they didn’t spend every night limbs entangled in the Head Boy’s small bed planning and dreaming of their future together.

She came into his life twenty-five years ago without so much as a preamble and immediately tore down his walls and altered everything he believed in. She stripped down his entire identity and everything that made him who he was only for her to disappear one day without a trace, leaving him raw and aching.

He hated how she told him she loved him only for her to leave him without so much as a kiss goodbye.

Standing here now in front of her, Lucius couldn’t help but feel cheated. That she still looked the same, looked as beautiful as the day he told her he loved her too under the shade of the huge mahogany tree by the Black Lake. After all these years, he should have moved on but a few seconds in her presence reinforced the fact that he still loved her with all his heart, mind, and soul and everything in between.

But now he’s in his mid-forties and she’s in her early twenties. And it wasn’t just time passed that was separating them.

“Miss Granger,” he returned, equally as cold. Lucius nodded stiffly before stepping around her. The sooner she was out of his sight, the sooner he can start moving on again.

But he hadn’t taken no more than five steps when he heard her call his name. “Lucius,” she spoke.

He felt that familiar tightening in his chest whenever she said his name in that tone and he felt a single traitorous tear trickle down his pale, cold cheek. And it kept on falling, falling, falling until it reached his jaw. Lucius was grateful there wasn’t any other customer inside the shop aside from the two of them.

“Lucius,” she said, clearer this time. A hand reached out and touched his shoulder, urging him to turn around and face her but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to see the pity in her wide, disarming eyes. Didn’t want her to see him so affected. “Please.”

He couldn’t, no. It would be so hard to just stand there and not touch her and feel her petite hands enclosed in his larger ones, to not say the words he had rehearsed in his head for so long if he ever saw her again. Memory after memory of their short time together seemed to pour out of his mind, every last detail he thought he had forgotten over the years but was actually just sitting there like a beloved, forgotten book tucked behind newer ones.

Lucius was angry and sad. Happy and scared. And he was rooted to spot. Stuck between an echo of lost time and the harsh reality of the present.

“What do you want, Miss Granger?” he said mostly to the space in front of him. He still refused to face her. Let her call him a coward. He wasn’t the one who lied about who she really was and walked away from someone who loved— _loves_ her.

“Please, Lucius,” she pleaded. Despite the several layers of clothing on him, he could still feel the warmth of her touch seeping through, marking him. “Talk to me.”

“You left,” he said softly before turning around to finally face her. And then his voice rose higher with each word. “You lied to me and then you left!”

“I didn't—I couldn't—”

“I love you and I hate you and I—” he bit back a sob before speaking softly. “I don’t know which feeling weighs more.”

“Lucius, I’m—,” she took a step forward cautiously as if he was some wild animal that would run if someone got too close. Lucius thought that he might. “I’m so sorry.”

“Your apology is twenty-five years too late,” he said, pained.

“It’s not fair, Lucius,” Hermione said angrily and he wondered if she noticed that she was crying now, face contorted in anguish. “You know I can’t tell you the truth nor I can’t stay in the past with you. It wasn’t my time.”

It wasn’t. But Lucius hardly cared about what was fair and what wasn’t. He hardly cared about a lot of things lately. And yet the confession suddenly spilled from his lips like a dam bursting because he wanted her to know. He cared for her. Always had. “I haven’t loved anyone since you, not even Narcissa. And I’m never going to feel the same way for anyone else. No, I don’t want to feel anything for anyone else.”

He raised both hands and cradled her face in it, his thumbs wiping away the tears that marred her lovely face. He felt like he was seventeen again and they were outside of Hogwarts, standing by the lake, felt the invisible barriers separating them slowly disappear.

“Is there any hope for us?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

Lucius felt the beginnings of a possibility stirring. He would take her uncertainty over nothing at all. He could work on that. _They_ could work on that.


	6. Affairs and Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a Cold War AU. Changed their surnames to Russian just for the hell of it lol

He had heard that she was very beautiful. But _very beautiful_ did not prepare him for Hermione Genrich.

At twenty, she was the youngest principal dancer the Bolshoi Ballet Company had ever seen and was often commended greatly for her immense skill. She had worked her way through the ranks at an unbelievable pace. The newspapers even said that the young starlet was set for a long and prosperous career in the company.

Lucius first found her sitting by the bar after one of her shows had concluded, her delicate fingers curled around the stem of a half-empty champagne flute.

In hindsight, he should have known he was in trouble before he even started. For how could he not fall in love, in lust? Everything about her was his Achilles heel. The lush, chestnut curls that smelled of spring and heat, of sweetness and fragrant passion. Brazen hazel eyes, a confident turn of the nose, of the heel as she swept the room with a glance before walking away. He had only known one other woman with such lethal and quiet elegance—his ex-wife.

It was fatal, _fatal_ _._

Because she belonged to someone else. Someone more powerful than him.

Tom Marvolo Romanoff was an orphan since birth and there had been much contention over his family background. He was a handsome, charismatic man and ten years ago, no one would have quite anticipated his swift rise to power but here he stood now—head of the NKGB, and ultimately General Secretary of the Soviet Government. Ruthless and determined.

In the same year that Romanoff came to be General Secretary, Hermione Genrich came to warm his bed and his heart.

To their credit, they were each the soul of discretion; two careful, patient individuals used to long swathes of time apart, bound to each other nevertheless. That the older man loved his young mistress was obvious to Lucius; he once shared a wall with them in a modest hotel room in Stockholm. And to the untrained eye, Hermione looked every bit as quietly taken by her clandestine and powerful lover.

Three months and Lucius knew better. Hermione was discreet and loyal, but there was a detachment to her manner. A delicate fragility about her. A vulnerability he could exploit for his pleasure.

* * *

It started with a drink.

He sidled up to her one night after her performance in Palais Garnier. They were in the restaurant of the George V, the hotel just off the Champs-Elysées in the 8th _arrondissement_ of the city of Paris. His platinum hair had glinted in the dim light while he had offered to buy her a drink. They knew each other by now. Every time Romanoff couldn’t make it to her shows, he would send his only trusted Lieutenant Colonel in his stead. Lucius knew Hermione was deeply upset even as her words were honeyed and gracious.

He had let her talk, the wine loosening her tongue, the disappointment loosening her inhibitions and loyalty. Lucius held her hand as he started to rub comforting circles, admiring the smoothness of her, the tightness of youthful skin and then he swallowed as he thought of other secret, narrow places… And because she could not read his prurient thoughts, still she did not pull her hand away. Eventually, her anger ebbed along with her words. And then it was two new friends quiet and alone in a restaurant, contemplating the view of the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower bathed in romance and moonlight. The evening had long waned into the night, and he felt himself wanting her terribly.

“It is his job. I hate his job. That’s his real mistress—” she bit her tongue, the glass of 1880 Madeira mingling with her mortification to redden her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

It was the first of their many secrets.

* * *

In hindsight, he should have known he was in trouble before he even started. Before he let her take him into her bed, before he allowed her to unbutton his shirt, to kiss down the length of his body, to take him deep into her mouth until he moaned.

They made love slowly, repeatedly. Before, as soon as they were alone, it was a clash of bodies, of souls. Thunder and lightning, and then one would come in a blinding flash and the other only a moment after. But this time was different. There was a new reverence, a bitter sweetness, an ache.

They lay there now, the sheen of perspiration cooling on their skin, sheets twisted and soiled, legs intertwined. His cock lay limp and emptied, his heart full, his mind tortured and at peace.

“Why are you with him?”

She turned on her side to look into his face then. Daybreak was squeezing itself through the slits of the blinds, tracing her form with a preternatural glow.

Christ, she was beautiful.

“He’s powerful. And I like powerful men.” _I am powerful too,_ he wanted to reply. _But not as powerful as him._

“He’s so _old,_ ” was what Lucius said instead.

She stared at him archly. “You’re old.”

He should have felt insulted, but instead, he laughed. “Not like he is. Not the way he walks, like the burden of the world is heaped on his shoulders.”

“He cares for me.”

“I _care_ for you.”

“You shouldn’t say such things, Lucius.” She rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling. Quietly, “He’ll have you killed if he heard you.”

Ten long seconds passed before he answered her. “I know.”

And yet he must have loved her from the first to want to give her that: the truth, or the closest incarnation of it.

It was the most he’d ever given anyone even his ex-wife of twenty years. If he had to do it over, he knew he’d still say these things to her, proclaim his feelings for her. Even knowing now that he’ll never see her again.

* * *

Hermione Granger remembered watching him sleep for the last time and wondered if he knew, all that time, who she really was.

More disturbingly, she remembered almost hoping that he did. That he saw right through her, that he stayed anyway. She remembered almost desperately wanting to tell him.

The NKGB Head had been her target from the start. Albus Dumbledore had trained her since she was six to play the part flawlessly. She had expected a lot of setbacks but meeting Romanoff’s right-hand man wasn’t one of them.

Never before, in all her missions, she had never wanted to blow her cover like that. What was it about Lieutenant Colonel Lucius Makrov, she wondered now. Why the yearning for the truth? Was it because he saw her better than any man she’d ever been with? Was it because she had to know if what he said was true, if he really, really loved?

_Loves?_

Why should it be so important to her?

* * *

One long, searching look into the infamous Lieutenant Colonel's face and Harry can no longer deny it. Yes, Lucius Makrov was completely in love with her. By God, Agent Granger had done it again. And yes, his allegiance was no longer with Russia. The way to a man's heart was often far simpler than one thought, or perhaps expected for himself.

Hermione watched as her handler, Harry Potter, flashed the two-way mirror a look of triumph, as he hastily excused himself, as he left the interrogation room and closed the door behind him, the one that cannot be opened from the inside. She watched as Harry hurried southward down the corridor to make the call. And then Hermione stared at Lucius, as he pivoted in his chair until he sat facing her squarely. As he stared back at the two-way mirror almost as if he can see her, as if he were looking straight into her soul.

 _Why_ , she asked him heart to heart, one hand on the glass as if holding his face, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist a tiny bit of Tomione reference there.


End file.
